The Secret Daughter of the Tsar

by Jennifer Laam

  Veronica thought of Abuela bustling around her little yellow kitchen in Bakersfield. She never remembered to lock her doors, no matter how many times Veronica reminded her. She’d put Abuela in danger. A soft gurgling noise escaped her as she gasped for air, a choking sensation rising in her throat.

  “You make it easy for man to do what he wants,” Grigori said.

  “You are not a man,” Natalya told him. “You are only a bully.”

  Veronica watched Grigori move toward Natalya, the gun no longer pointed in her direction. If Michael was quick about it, he could jump Grigori. He only had to move. Then she realized Grigori had one hand on Natalya, the gun close to her neck. If Michael moved, Grigori could shoot her.

  “Think about this,” Grigori told Natalya. He bent down near her ear, the red undertones in his hair glinting in the light. “Your mother loyal to empress. Why let effort go to waste?”

  Veronica cringed. She couldn’t bear to watch Grigori’s eagle talon fingers clutching Natalya’s delicate shoulder. Still she clung to faint hope. The fierce look on Michael’s face made it easy to imagine him as a younger man, grabbing drunken frat boys by the collar and tossing them out of the bar.

  “Bolsheviks kill the empress, kill the children,” Grigori said. “Little girls. Your mother devoted. She made sacrifices. She would want revenge. Restoration of tsar is revenge.”

  “Not this way,” Natalya insisted.

  “Do it for her,” Grigori said. “Take back what Bolsheviks took away.”

  Natalya’s head collapsed into her hands. Veronica saw red spots dance before her eyes. She couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t stand to watch Grigori try to push this woman around. She would have made a deal with the devil to make it end. “This is your glorious restoration?” she demanded, turning to Alexei Romanov. “You will let this happen? You’ll betray everything you worked to build all these years?”

  “I have tried and tried.” He gestured toward Grigori. “I don’t know what happened. I thought we had an agreement.”

  “Then maybe you don’t deserve the title or the throne,” Veronica said. “Maybe you never did.”

  That roused him. Romanov had the look of a man trying to hold himself together when everything was falling to pieces, blurry around the edges. “I’ve been groomed from birth. I’ve been educated in Russian culture and history. I speak four languages. I remain steadfast and true, waiting for sublime destiny.”

  “Then seize your destiny,” Veronica said. “Put a stop to this. You were the one who hired this man? Or did he approach you?”

  “I suppose we courted one another,” Romanov said.

  “I think you can put a stop to all of this,” Veronica said. “You’re smart. Smarter, I think, than this one realizes.” She jutted her chin at Grigori. “I know what this means to you, how you want to accomplish restoration the right way.”

  Grigori rolled his head to the side and repositioned the gun, pointing it at Veronica. His voice rose an octave. “Don’t be fool, Alyosha.”

  The term of endearment sounded far different on Grigori’s tongue than it had earlier when Natasha used it. Veronica tasted the fear in her mouth, but pressed on. “I don’t think you would have associated with him unless you could hold your own.”

  “If I put a stop to this madness,” Romanov said, “what will I get in return?”

  Veronica opened her mouth, but then dropped her gaze. She realized she had nothing to offer. She watched Natalya rub the silver rose on her charm bracelet.

  “Mikhail will publicly renounce his claim,” Natalya said.

  Romanov raised an eyebrow. “And why should I believe you?”

  “He will do it because I ask him.”

  “She’s my mother,” Michael said quietly.

  Veronica stifled a gasp. She’d been right about the resemblance.

  “You have my word of honor as well as his,” Natalya said. “We will make no further claims on behalf of our family.”

  Romanov stared at Natalya, a pained look in his eyes. “How could you?” he cried. “Why not tell me? Why create a fake line? Why falsify a claim?”

  “We needed access to your files,” Natalya said. “We wanted to see if you had any evidence to support my mother’s story. You only allow those of noble birth near them.”

  Romanov allowed a hint of triumph in his voice. “Mikhail was lying all along?”

  Veronica stared at Michael. He looked at her, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, but said nothing more.

  A ghost of a smile played on Romanov’s lips. “The grandson of a servant. I should have known.” Romanov rubbed his hands together. Veronica saw a glimmer of his old vigor return as he turned to Michael. “You’ll publicly admit you’re a fraud?”

  “That would be for fool, Mikhail,” Grigori rumbled. “Think about offer, whatever you desire in reach.”

  “I will publicly admit that I falsified my claim,” Michael said. “Now who is he? Who does he work for? What do you know?”

  Alexei Romanov straightened his blue blazer. When she’d first met him, Veronica sensed dignity about the man. Some measure of that dignity returned now. He strode toward Grigori, puffy as a rooster. “Grigori Ilyich Yurovsky is known to the authorities in Moscow, Kiev, and New York as a dealer in heroin and methamphetamine.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Grigori roared. He turned his gun to Romanov.

  Romanov put his hands in the air, but his voice remained clear. “I send an e-mail to other members of our organization every day at five, with updates. If I don’t send one today, the Guardsmen are under instructions to call the police and tell them everything we know about you.”

  Grigori’s expression crumbled, his dreams of the dacha evaporating before his eyes. “We find your family.”

  “I don’t have a family,” Romanov said curtly. “I don’t have children and my parents are dead. My only mission now is to preserve the sanctity of my family’s memory. I’d rather die than see you put an imposter on the throne.” He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone and began pressing buttons. “This will all be very embarrassing for you, I think. It makes you look sloppy.”

  “I am a Russian citizen. Americans can’t hold me.”

  “So what? They extradite you? To Russia? Where you’ll be taken into custody and asked to give names of associates.” Romanov clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Of course those associates will make sure you’re shut up.”

  Grigori stepped back. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Leave us,” Romanov instructed.

  “And tell my people what? Mikhail escaped? I failed?”

  “This is not my problem,” Romanov said coolly.

  “They do not want you as the claimant.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something to change their mind. After all, everyone will know Mikhail is an imposter.” A slow smile spread across Romanov’s face. “Quelle dommage. But we can work together. All I ask in return is that your people back my claim. I assure you it is valid. My grandfather kept impeccable records, as did my parents. I’m the one.”

  Veronica saw the anger churn in Grigori. His eyes grew fierce, the acorn-shaped scar on his cheek flaring. He raised his black Glock again, but pointed it at Romanov.

  Michael lunged toward Grigori and in one swift, sure movement wrestled his arm to his side and then behind his back. He shook the gun out of Grigori’s hand and it tumbled to the floor with a thud.

  “Let me take care of him,” Grigori cried. “Just the old man.”

  Heart hammering, Veronica stared at the gun. It was too far away. Michael couldn’t possibly retrieve it. She’d never touched a gun before, but she had seen her cousins at the firing range once. With the adrenaline pumping, she supposed she could handle one well enough.

  Romanov was blinking, confused, as though he hadn’t expected to still be there. He was staring at the gun as well. Before Veronica could react, he scrambled to the floor. She followed, but he had a head start.
His hand folded over the handle.

  Michael and Grigori stopped struggling. Romanov pointed the gun at Grigori. His breath came in loud gulps. Then he turned the gun on Michael.

  Veronica grabbed her purse from the floor and reached inside.

  Romanov pivoted slightly. “What are you…?”

  She felt the canister at once. She lifted it and sprayed in Romanov’s direction. He screamed in agony and the gun fell to the floor. Michael grabbed it.

  Romanov stumbled to a chair, crying out like a yowling tomcat, hands splayed over his face. “I wasn’t going to shoot him,” Romanov cried. “Why would I shoot him?”

  “I’m sorry,” Veronica sputtered. “I wasn’t sure. I had to do something.”

  Natalya rose to her feet and moved swiftly to the kitchen. She reappeared a minute later with a wet towel and handed it to Romanov, who pressed the towel to his eyes, still howling.

  “You’ll live,” Natalya said soothingly. “It wasn’t even a direct hit.”

  Veronica swung around to fire the Mace at Grigori, but then turned in a full circle. Grigori’s trench coat had been slung over a chair near the door. Now it was gone. He was gone. A car engine roared to life outside. She ran to the window in time to watch his sedan peel out and disappear around the corner.

  Michael opened the gun’s chamber and shook it until the bullets fell with a clatter to the floor. Then he passed his hand over his mouth.

  As she watched him, a bit of the old spell returned. Despite the shadows under his eyes and his sickly pallor, she saw the man who’d stood up to the jackass at Electric Lotus and twirled her around dance floors and held her in his arms as she finally let go of her past. Michael looked like he belonged in the Winter Palace. She still longed for him to say something to put all that had transpired this afternoon in a new light.

  Michael started to walk toward her, ready to sweep her in his arms again. But he said nothing, still gave no explanation for what had happened. She drew in a deep, painful breath. “You kept telling me to trust you, but you were lying all along.”

  Michael’s lips moved, trying to find the right word.

  “At least tell me why. Why go to all this trouble?”

  He began to sway, his eyes rimmed in red.

  She saw Michael for who he truly was now, a muddled man with delusions of grandeur. Michael had lied and she’d been a willing and starry-eyed target, eager to play Cinderella at some fake Romanov court. How gullible she’d been. She wanted to freeze and turn to stone. Nothing could hurt her then, it would all be superficial static.

  Michael extended his hand. She raised her own hand with resignation. “Don’t.”

  Michael’s face looked ashen. “I failed you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Veronica’s stomach felt like lead. She’d indulged a ridiculous fantasy, been drunk on romantic stories. She wouldn’t parade him through Saint Petersburg or anywhere else, for that matter. How much time had she wasted only to be made a fool?

  She tried to visualize a layer of armor enfolding her heart to protect her, but the trick didn’t work anymore. She felt a pricking sensation at the back of her eyes. Another minute and she’d turn into a blubbering mess. Slowly, she picked her purse up from the floor. “Thank you for sharing the letter with me,” she said, nodding in Natalya’s direction. She wanted to say something to Romanov, but his head remained between his knees, the towel still pressed to his eyes.

  “Perhaps you could wait a few minutes, dear,” Natalya said gently.

  Veronica shook her head. “Not this time.” She headed for the door.

  Michael didn’t try to stop her.

  Eighteen

  After the initial shock had passed, the dowager empress spoke with Alexandra of Phillipe Vachot, but the empress wouldn’t listen. Vachot had promised Alexandra he’d reappear in the form of another man. Alexandra would remember these words later when she met a mystic from the East named Rasputin.

  —VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov

  THE GULF OF FINLAND

  AUGUST 1902

  Lena tried to close her ears to the sound of Alexandra’s agonized scream. It did no good. She watched the empress turn and writhe and bury her face in the lace-trimmed pillow, crying for her missing child. Heat rose in Lena’s chest until she was suffocating. She could bear it no longer. She wanted to disappear. Slowly, she made out her own form as well, small and lonely, huddled next to Alexandra’s bed. That couldn’t be right. She wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. Marie had made her leave. She’d already left.

  She jolted awake, warm and damp, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, blankets crumpled underneath her. The gentle rolling motion of the ferry registered and then the details of the modest cabin: the pitcher of water on the nightstand near her bed and the bare electric bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling.

  She turned at once to check on the grand duchess in the little bassinet beside her bed. The baby slept soundly. Lena sighed in relief, yet her heart still raced. She needed fresh air. She reached for one of the periodicals in the basket near her bed and used it to prop the cabin door ajar, so she could hear the baby when she awoke.

  Lena approached the railing outside of her cabin. A crisp breeze ruffled her hair and a seagull cried as it flew off from its perch on the deck above her. She focused on the distant shoreline. Through the gauze of coastal fog, she made out the fuzzy figures of grazing sheep and cows and the golden spires of Saint Petersburg cathedrals, tips twinkling in the distant sunlight. From here, it all looked so grand and peaceful.

  A sharp wind gusted and Lena bundled deeper into her coat. When she was a little girl in Archangel and the first frost hit, she’d draw her warmest bear fur close around her body, determined to accompany her mother to another birth even if the howling wind frightened her. Now she’d never see her parents, never hear Anton’s merry laugh, or play again with the lopsided chess pieces he carved from wood. But hadn’t she fulfilled Anton’s wish? She’d escaped Archangel. As she pulled farther and farther away, the easier it became to remember without bitterness. Her life lay free before her.

  “I thought you were taking a nap, seamstress. You had a long night.”

  The familiar tone of his velvety voice made her skin tingle. She felt the color in her face, already flushed red from the cold, deepen as Pavel approached.

  “You still move without making a sound,” she commented. “It could get you in trouble someday. Now that you’re no longer in the dowager’s employ, you may want to change your habit.”

  “Many things could get me in trouble, so I may as well do as I please.” When Pavel smiled, dimples appeared in the hollows of his cheeks.

  She tried to return his smile, but away from their established roles, she felt awkward. She hadn’t yet reconciled herself to the sight of Pavel in civilian clothes, a dark greatcoat and plain trousers, rather than his elaborate palace uniform. He didn’t wear his fez or turban either. His hair was shorn close to his head. He still cut an impressive figure, but seemed more accessible somehow.

  “What did Marie name the child?” Pavel asked.

  “Charlotte. After her grandmother and her husband’s grandmother.” Lena glanced back at her cabin. It would be difficult to pass the girl to the couple in Copenhagen, to let her go and never find out what was to become of her. But what else could she do? Lena didn’t want to dwell on the thought. “So Marie made you a member of the Preobrazhensky Guard. Congratulations.”

  “The title means nothing outside of Russia, but I appreciate the gesture. She gave me an honorary last name as well. Rubalov. Do you like it?”

  “Pavel Rubalov,” she said, testing the sound. “Paul Rubalov.”

  He leaned forward on the railing, smiling slyly. “You remember my given name from America.”

  Lena looked down at the waves lapping against the side of the boat. “Rubalov has a nice ring to it, but what will your family think?”

  His smile collapsed. “We have no attachment to the othe
r name. It was the name of the man who kept my parents as slaves.”

  “Oh.” Lena felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment.

  He looked past her, at the forests lining the retreating coastline. “Rubalov is as good a name as any. I’ll use it from now on.”

  “What will you do after we leave the grand duchess with Marie’s people?”

  “The dowager empress gave me money. I’ll start over again.” He dipped his head. Even though he was much taller than Lena, he seemed to look up at her. “What about you? Nothing holds you back? What about your family?”

  “I’m not leaving much behind.”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “Once I started to work for the Romanovs, I hardly saw my family anyway,” she added.

  “What about your roommate?” he teased. “Did you even tell her good-bye? Surely you could have invented a story for her, some good gossip.”

  Lena tapped her foot against the deck. Masha wouldn’t intercept any more of her letters or ask Lena when she would take a Cossack lover. She wasn’t sure if she’d miss Masha or not.

  Pavel laughed softly. “I see it in your face. You’re ready for a change. I understand. I’m ready for a change as well. But I don’t know that I’ll get one.”

  He nodded toward the other side of the ferry’s walkway. A well-dressed young couple strolled toward them on the deck, openly staring. The man’s expression betrayed no more than mild curiosity. But as the cold ocean wind blew her hair from her face, Lena saw the woman crumple her nose and purse her lips.

  Her look bored into Lena’s soul. It reminded her of what she saw on Masha’s face when Lena spoke to Pavel, only much worse. She wondered how Pavel could bear it. She didn’t think she could manage. Lena turned to the woman. She smiled sweetly, but arched her eyebrows, the way Marie might. “If you have something to say,” Lena told the woman, her voice ice, “come right on out and say it. Otherwise, allow us our privacy.”